UC-NRLF 


B    3    31S    ^3E 


THE   SAD   YEARS 
DOEA   SIGERSON 


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DO"K;A,  S'GER*0> 


THE    SAD    YEARS 

BY 

DORA  SIGERSON 

(MRS.  CLEMENT   SHORTER) 


WITH   A   TRIBUTE   BY 

KATHARINE    TYNAN 


NEW^tS^YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1918, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


NOTE 

All  the  poems  in  this  little  volume  were 
written  after  the  beginning  of  the  war.  They 
were  arranged  for  publication  by  the  author 
shortly  before  her  death,  which  took  place 
on  the  sixth  of  January,  1918. 


DORA  SIGERSON 

A  TRIBUTE  AND  SOME  MEMORIES 
By  Katharine  Tynan 

TO  think  of  Dora  Sigerson — and  it  is  a  poignant 
thought — takes  one  back  to  Dublin  in  the  'nineties, 
or  the  later  'eighties.  I  think  it  was  on  a  summer  Sun- 
day in  1887  that  Dr.  Sigerson  came  to  see  me  with  his 
two  daughters  and  Rose  Kavanagh,  whom  I  already 
knew.  The  Yeatses  were  there  that  Sunday  for  the  big 
meal  at  a  most  unfashionable  hour,  which  was  a  feature 
of  those  years  for  the  young  writers  and  artists  of 
Dublin.  My  old  home  was  in  the  country,  just  under 
the  Dublin  mountains,  and,  I  think,  a  very  delightful 
place. 

Everyone,  of  course,  knew  Dr.  Sigerson  by  repute. 
The  house  was  full  of  the  young  that  day,  with  just  a 
sprinkling  of  the  young  of  heart  like  Mr.  Yeats  and 
my  father  and  Dr.  Sigerson.  I  remember  that  my 
brother  said  to  me,  "Miss  Sigerson  is  very  beautiful." 
She  was.  Her  face  then  had  some  curious  suggestion 
of  the  Greek  Hermes.  She  wore  her  dark  hair  short, 
and  it  was  in  heavy  masses.     She  had  a  beautiful  brow 

[vii] 


DORA  SIGERSON 


and  eyebrows,  very  fine  grey  eyes,  a  short  straight  nose, 
a  warm  pale  colour,  and  vivid  red  lips.  A  little  later 
the  Irish- American,  Miss  Louise  Imogen  Guiney,  dedi- 
cated her  "Roadside  Harp"  to  the  Sigerson  sisters : 

There  in  the  Druid  brake, 
If  the  cuckoo  be  awake 

Again,  oh,  take  my  rhyme, 
And  keep  it  long  for  the  sake 

Of  a  bygone  primrose-time. 
You  of  the  star-bright  head 

That  twilight  thoughts  sequester: 
You  to  your  native  fountains  led, 
Like  to  a  young  Muse  garlanded: 

Dora,  and  Hester. 

Dora  was  indeed  "like  to  a  young  Muse  garlanded." 
She  was  singularly  beautiful,  with  some  strange  hint  of 
storm  in  her  young  beauty.  She  was  so  full  of  artistic 
impulse  and  achievement  of  many  kinds,  and  she  arrived 
at  so  much  of  art  without  any  apprenticeship  that  the 
word  "genius"  seems  not  inapplicable  to  her.  Our 
friendship  flowed  straight  on  from  that  summer  Sun- 
day of  1887.  Dr.  Sigerson's  house  in  Clare  Street 
became  my  headquarters  when  I  went  into  Dublin 
from  my  country  home.  Dora  was  always  painting  or 
writing  or  doing  sculpture.  I  can  remember  her  com- 
ing from  somewhere  downstairs  to  the  drawing-room  at 
fviiil 


DORA  SIGERSON 


No.  3,  Clare  Street,  when  I  was  announced,  wearing  a 
sort  of  sculptor's  blouse.  There  is  still  in  her  old 
home,  crowded  with  beautiful  things,  at  least  one  head 
by  her  of  a  nymph  or  a  dryad,  strangely  delicate  and 
pensive. 

I  don't  think  she  had  read  much  poetry  till  John 
O'Leary,  saying  her  poetry  was  too  introspective,  gave 
her  Percy's  "Reliques,"  whence  the  genesis  of  her  fine 
ballad  poetry.  If  she  had  any  training  as  an  art 
student  for  her  painting  and  drawing  and  sculpture,  it 
must  have  been  very  slight.  The  gifts  came  to  her  out 
of  the  air,  so  to  speak ;  real  gifts  and  nothing  acquired. 

For  seven  good  years  my  life  was  inextricably  inter- 
woven with  hers  and  Hester's.  We  had  the  same  friends, 
the  same  merry-makings,  the  same  tastes  and  aims.  We 
were  of  the  circle  which  revolved  around  the  great  old 
Fenian,  John  O'Leary,  and  his  not  less  noble  sister; 
we  visited  the  American  poets,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Piatt,  at 
Queenstown,  where  Mr.  Piatt  was  American  Consul ;  we 
spent  many  happy  days  at  Mr.  Richard  Ashe  King's 
delightful  house  at  Waltham  Terrace,  Blackrock.  We 
wrote  for  the  same  papers.  Presently  Dora  Sigerson 
and  I  were  together  in  politics,  both  Parnellites  when 
the  "split"  came.  Together  we  attended  Mr.  Parnell's 
meetings;  we  went  to  meet  him  when  he  returned  to 

[k] 


DORA  SIGERSON 


Dublin  from  the  country ;  we  lived  through  all  the  pas- 
sionate loyalty  of  those  days.  Together  we  exulted; 
together  we  mourned;  together  we  followed  our  chief 
to  the  grave,  not  thinking  upon  how  she  should  one 
day  lie  near  him. 

Perhaps  the  best  holiday  we  had  together  was  a 
scamper  through  Donegal  on  some  business  about  the 
industries  for  Lady  Aberdeen.  It  was  just  before  I 
was  married.  From  the  time  we  left  Amiens  Street 
Station  till  we  returned  it  was  all  pure  enjoyment.  The 
people  with  their  beautiful  manners,  the  wonderful 
scenery,  the  hotels,  the  car-drivers,  the  priests,  the 
little  towns,  the  wild,  lonely  places,  the  great  hospital- 
ity— all  were  a  delight  to  her.  She  was  full  of  the  joie 
de  vivre,  despite  the  hint  of  tragedy  in  her  beauty.  She 
did  madcap  things.  Like  Martin  Ross  she  could  mimic 
animals  perfectly.  How  we  laughed  when  she  crowed 
like  a  cock  over  a  low  wall  beyond  which  was  a  poultry- 
yard,  and  the  real  Vizier,  after  one  careful  look  around, 
marshalled  all  his  ladies  into  an  inner  enclosure.  I 
have  somewhere  a  book  of  that  tour  with  her  delight- 
fully humorous  drawings.  She  was  always  pencil  in 
hand.  We  did  the  whole  of  Donegal  within  a  fortnight, 
and  came  back,  blowzed  but  happy,  I  to  my  wedding, 
she  to  the  Dublin  she  always  loved.     A  year  or  two 


DORA  SIGERSON 


later  she  met  Clement  Shorter  at  our  little  house  in 
Mount  Avenue,  Ealing. 

One  thing  I  must  not  omit  to  mention — her  passion- 
ate love  of  animals.  In  the  old,  good  days  in  Dublin 
she  used  to  pick  up  waifs  and  strays  of  forlorn  dog- 
hood  and  take  them  to  the  Dogs'  Home.  The  boys  in 
the  street  used  to  shout  derision  at  us:  "Go  on!  wid 
yer  grand  hats  and  ye  to  be  starvin'  yer  dog!"  The 
sense   of  humour   supported  us. 

How  we  laughed  and  lived  together!     Ah,  well: 

Let  nothing  disturb  thee, 
Let  nothing  affright  thee. 

All  passes, 

Only  God  remaineth 

For  ever  and  ever. 

I  will  not  speak  of  her  beautiful  poetry,  essential  poetry, 
always  with  a  passionate  emotion  to  give  it  wings.  It 
is  for  the  critic.  No  one  will  say  she  was  not  happy 
in  her  English  life,  though  her  heart  was  always  slipping 
away  like  a  grey  bird  to  Ireland.  She  had  a  very  full 
life  and  she  had  absolute  devotion  and  knew  what  a 
precious  thing  she  had. 

Her  breakdown  in  health  was  sudden.  She  attributed 
it  herself  to  her  intense  and  isolated  suffering — isolated 
beyond  the  perfect  sympathy  of  her  devoted  husband — 

[3d] 


DORA  SIGERSON 


over  the  events  following  Easter  week,  1916,  in  Dublin, 
and  the  troubles  which  menaced  the  country  she  adored. 
I  think  she  need  not  have  felt  so  bitterly  isolated;  the 
spirit  of  humanity  is  strong  in  the  good  English — and 
the  good  English  are  very  good — but  the  fact  remains 
that  she  broke  her  heart  over  it  all ;  and  so  she  died,  as 
she  would  have  chosen  to  die,  for  love  of  the  Dark 
Rosaleen. 


[xii] 


DORA  SIGERSON 

By  C.  P.  Curran 

THE  finest  side  of  Irish  life  and  literature  is  poorer 
to-day  by  the  death  of  Dora  Sigerson.  From  her 
long  residence  in  England  she  was  known  here  mainly  as 
a  poet  of  a  genius  as  distinguished  as  it  was  personal. 
But  when,  in  recent  years,  affairs  in  Ireland  grew  more 
critical,  her  great-hearted  personality  emerged  more 
clearly  and  shone  the  more  brightly  as  the  situation 
grew  more  dangerous.  Love  of  Ireland  was  with  her  a 
passion.  The  events  of  Easter  week  moved  her  pro- 
foundly. She  spent  herself  regally  on  behalf  of  her 
people  with  brain,  pen  and  fortune  and  at  the  expense 
of  her  vitality.  The  best  of  the  English  weeklies  said 
that  "the  rebellion  killed  her  almost  as  surely  as  if  she 
had  stood  with  the  rebels  in  O'Connell  Street.  Hence- 
forth she  could  think  of  little  else;  of  what  had  died 
with  it  and  what  might  live."  That  is  no  less  than  the 
truth.  She  is  fairly  to  be  reckoned  with  the  dead  of 
Easter.  Devotion  to  their  cause  consumed  her  like  a 
flame  into  which  she  flung  all  her  gifts,  neither  few  nor 
negligible.     She  was  a  true  artist,  eagerly  seeking  ex- 

[xiiil 


DORA  SIGERSON 


pression  for  an  ardent  and  manifold  personality  which 
itself  transcended  all  her  work,  whether  in  poetry, 
sculpture  or  painting.  Her  poetry  was  saluted  by  the 
greatest  contemporary  names  in  England:  Meredith, 
Francis  Thompson,  Swinburne,  and  the  present  writer 
has  seen  her  name  as  the  subject  of  lecture  on  the  notice- 
boards  of  the  Sorbonne.  What  faults  lay  on  the  surface 
of  her  verse  were  more  than  compensated  for  by  its 
intensity,  an  intensity  often  tragic,  "stoned  by  con- 
tinual wreckage  of  her  dreams,"  but  always  filled  with 
pity.  In  the  "Songs  of  the  Irish  Rebellion"  and  in  her 
later  work  generally  which  we,  in  Ireland,  will  always 
consider  her  best,  the  passion  that  consumed  her  burnt 
away  these  superficial  defects,  themselves  characteristic 
of  her  impetuous  spirit.  The  poet  of  "Ireland,"  of  the 
"Wind  on  the  Hills,"  of  "Ceann  Dubh  Dilis,"  of  "Six- 
teen Dead  Men,"  will  always  be  remembered  on  that 
honourable  roll  of  artists  who,  to  the  gain  of  both, 
fused  with  their  art,  the  strong  love  of  the  people. 


[xiv] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  SAD  YEARS 19 

progress:  1914-1918 21 

OCTOBER  1915 24 

VTHE  QUESTION 25 

THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 27 

1  THE  ROAD  OF  THE  REFUGEES 30 

HEROD 32 

THE  HOURS  OF  ILLNESS 35 

TO  BID  HER  LIVE 37 

IF  YOU  SHOULD  PASS 39 

THE  TWO  PRAYERS 41 

MOTHER 43 

FOR  HE  HAD  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 45 

THE  SEA-MEW 47 

LOVES  ME?  LOVES  ME  NOT? 49 

THE  SWALLOW -  51 

THE  SECRET 53 

I  WANT  TO  TALK  TO  THEE 54 

COMFORT  THE  WOMEN 56 

THE  SINKING  SHIP 59 

NORA 61 

THE  LOITERER 62 

THE  PATCHWORK  QUILT 63 

OURSELVES  ALONE ^ 

THE  PRISONER 67 

[XV] 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

SICK  I  AM  AND  SORROWFUL 69 

HOME 71 

I  SAW  CHILDREN  PLAYING 72 

A  student's  SONG 74 

THE  TREE  UPROOTED 75 

MIGRATORY  BIRDS 77 

A  FANTASY 79 

THE  DEAD  SOLDIER 80 

THE  QUEEN 82 

THE  SACRED  FIRE 84 

THEY  DID  NOT  SEE  THY  FACE 85 

THE  WREATH 87 

THE  DEFENDERS 88 

A  SONG  FOR  EVALEEN 89 

THE  COMFORTERS 91 

THE  BLACK  HORSEMAN 92 

ON  THE  OTHER  SIDE 94 

THE  HOUSE  OF  CARDS 96 

THE  PALACE  GATE 100 

AN  OLD  PROVERB 102 


[xvi] 


THE   SAD   YEARS 


THE    SAD    YEARS 

THOU  hast  encompassed  us,  indeed,  O  Lord, 
With  these  sad  years.     Where  does  the  failure  lie 
Of  this  Thy  man,  made  to  Thy  likeness,  since 
Within  the  golden  mirror  of  the  sun 
Thou  gavest  Thy  sweet  loveliness  and  didst 
Then  gather  dust  to  mould  him  to  Thy  shape, 
And  stood  him  upright  on  Thy  holy  palm 
To  view  his  form  and  praise  Thy  handiwork  ? 
Is  this  Thy  likeness  then,  Thy  perfect  mould, 
Thy  hands,  Thy  feet,  Thy  voice,  Thy  sacred  heart, 
A  god  in  miniature,  of  Eden  made? 

Hands,  hands,  hands,  tearing,  grasping,  slaying, 
Cold,  stiff,  still,  soothing,  strangling,  praying. 
Feet,  feet,  feet,  running,  toiling,  stamping, 
Crushing,  killing,  falling,  stumbling,  tramping. 
Cries,  cries,  cries,  brutal,  broken,  wailing, 
Sobbing,  helpless,  anguished,  dying,  failing. 
Hearts,  hearts,  hearts,  loving,  hating,  seeking, 
Hearts  of  all  Thy  children,  breaking,  breaking. 

[19] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  SAD  YEARS   {Continued) 
Is  this,  indeed,  Thy  man,  that  Thou  hast  made, 
Is  this  Thy  likeness,  and  are  these  Thy  ways  ? 
Oh,  Lord  of  pity,  quench  these  flaming  hours, 
Restore  to  peace  these  sad  and  tortured  years 
Wherein  Thou  breakest  the  frail  heart  of  man 
— Or  he  the  heart  of  God. 


[20] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


PROGRESS:   1914-1918 

0 !  I  am  athirst,"  said  the  brown  earth, 
"And  I  would  drink  my  fill." 
"Have  I  not  slaked  thee,  cried  the  grey  skies, 
"From  river,  stream,  and  rill?" 

"I  would  have  wine,"  said  the  hot  earth, 

"Red  wine  from  hearts  afire." 
"Lo!  thou  shalt  arise,"  cried  the  fierce  sun, 

"Clad  in  a  new  attire." 

"My  fruit  abundant,"  said  the  fair  earth, 

"As  never  seen  before." 
"Gladly  shall  I  bear,"  cried  the  proud  tree, 

"That  ripe  and  luscious  store." 

"My  cloth  so  radiant,"  said  the  vain  earth, 

"Shall  wrap  me  in  its  sheen." 
"Deeply  shall  we  weave,"  cried  the  slim  grass, 

"In  tender  gold  and  green." 

[21] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


PROGRESS:    1914-1918    {Continued) 
"Lo!  I  am  athirst,"  said  the  hot  earth, 

"And  I  would  quench  my  fears." 
"Then  thou  shalt  taste,"  cried  the  young  maid, 

"The  bitter  sweet  of  tears." 

"Have  I  not  held  them,"  said  the  old  earth, 

"The  dead  unto  my  heart?" 
"Under  my  white  robe,"  cried  the  chill  wind, 

"So  a  new  spring  should  start." 

"Men  must  pale  and  die,"  said  the  black  earth, 

"So  men  may  rise  and  live ;" 
"And  I  was  born  thus,"  cried  the  great  town, 

"In  blood  they  slew  to  give." 

"Grant  to  me  red  wine,"  said  the  brown  earth, 

"Else  do  I  droop  and  tire." 
"As  in  the  great  past,"  cried  the  pale  hills, 

"We  drank  of  hearts  afire." 

"In  war  have  I  grown,"  said  the  fierce  earth, 

"Man  against  his  brother." 
"Death's  sheaves  have  fed  thee,"  said  the  green  woods, 

"Beast  slaying  one  the  other." 
[22] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


PROGRESS:    1914-1918   (Continued) 

"I  have  built  my  state,"  said  the  proud  earth, 

"In  strife  and  foul  dissension;" 
"Thy  church  uprising,"  cried  the  grey  rocks, 

"From  blood  and  hot  contention." 

"Lo !  I  am  athirst,"  sighed  the  brown  earth, 

"Grant  me  red  wine  to  spend." 
"As  it  was  in  the  beginning,"  said  the  great  hills, 

"And  shall  be  to  the  end." 


[23] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


OCTOBER,   1915 

WHEN  the  white  rose  and  the  red  spill  their  leaves 
upon  the  way, 
Make  a  scented  path  to  tread  through  the  long,  sun- 
haunted  day; 
I  half-dreaming  all  forget  in  the  summer's  idle  grace, 
That  the  city's  claim  will  come,  bid  me  back  into  my 
place. 

How  can  I  go  forth  again  to  the  hot  and  restless  town, 
Where  the  stranger  people  pass  ever  careless  up  and 

down, 
Where  convention  chills  each  hand  from  a  kind  and 

friendly  hold? 
Here  the  robin  to  my  call  cheerful  comes,  alert  and  bold. 

Summer  with  her  pretty  ways  now  is  taking  leave  of  me, 
Slow  the  ling'ring  roses  fall,  softly  sings  the  honey-bee, 
How  can  I  go  back  again  to  the  horrors  of  the  town, 
Where  the  husky  voice  of  war  fiercely  echoes  up  and 
down  ? 
[24] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE    QUESTION 

GIVE  me  the  heavy  sleep,  the  dreamless  slumber 
Nor  shrouded  grief  nor  sorrow  will  encumber. 
Let  me  but  sleep  as  he  whose  labour-hand 
Hath  tilled  the  sod  and  ploughed  the  pleasant  land, 
But,  God !  to  dream,  to  wake,  and  dream  again, 
Where  screams  red  war  in  harvesting  dead  men. 
Ah!  dream  of  home,  of  love,  of  joy,  all  thrilling, 
To  wake  once  more  to  killing,  killing,  killing. 

Give  me  the  hunter's  hand,  the  patriot's  fervour 
To  hold  death  naught,  or  for  my  land  to  serve  her, 
Slay  and  still  slay,  with  heart  that  holds  no  sorrow 
For  these  dead  men  and  all  their  carnal  horror. 
Was  I  not  one  who  loved  my  land  for  growing 
Sweet,  eager  life,  and  pretty  things  all  blowing? 
How  glad  these  hands  to  give  their  toil,  how  willing, 
That  now,  O  God !  grow  strong  in  killing,  killing. 

I  never  see  a  young  face  grey  in  dying 
But  from  my  blade  I  hear  a  woman  crying: 

[25] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  QUESTION   (Continued) 

"Spare,  spare  my  child !"  or  screams  my  bullet,  saying, 
"Stay,  stay  thy  flight !     My  father  thou  art  slaying." 
All  summer  through  I  heard  from  each  pale  sleeper, 
"Thou  shalt  not  kill."     "Am  I  my  brother's  keeper?" 
I  fain  replied.     And  now  comes  dread  December, 
With  "Peace  on  Earth."     O  God!  dare  I  remember? 
"To  men  goodwill."     Am  I  Thy  laws  fulfilling 
Who  run  red-handed — killing,  killing,  killing? 


[26] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE    HUMAN   TOUCH 

SHE  made  roses  all  the  day  for  pretty  ladies'  wear, 
All  through  the  patient  hours,  half  into  the  night. 
Dragged  into  a  hurried  knot  all  her  dusty  hair, 
Eyes  foolish  with  fatigue,  straining  to  the  light. 

Pretty  ladies  roamed  away  over  land  and  sea, 

Talked  on  foreign  boulevard,  laughed  in  gay  bazaar ; 

Followed  summer's  sunny  road  planning  times  to  be, 
Happy  hours  of  holiday,  as  the  seasons  are. 

She  made  roses  all  the  day  for  pretty  ladies'  wear, 
All  through  the  long  day,  half  into  the  night. 

Followed  all  the  toiling  hours  with  a  dumb  despair 
Lest  they  overtake  her  skill  in  their  hurried  flight. 

Pretty  ladies  in  the  park  driving  up  and  down, 

Chatting  of  the  horrid  war,  strolling  on  the  grass, 

Shopping  long  in  Regent  Street,  over  cloak  or  gown, 
Waving  hand  or  handkerchief  as  the  soldiers  pass. 

[27] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH   (Continued) 

She  made  roses  all  the  day  for  pretty  ladies'  wear, 

Threepence  for  a  dozen  such,  working  to  the  night. 
Just  an  hour  of  holiday  left  her  cupboard  bare, 

She    knew   naught    of    Regent    Street    or    of    war's 
affright. 


Sudden  in  a  dusky  hour  came  a  stranger  bird, 
To  the  frightened  city's  gloom,  in  her  silent  race 

Flew  to  drop  her  evil  egg  where  the  slow  winds  stirred 
Wrapping  mist  from  some  rich  store  for  her  nesting 
place. 


But  the  pitying  breath  of  night  blowing  from  the  west 
Blew  the  evil  bird  to  go  in  the  smoke  and  gloom, 

So  that  sudden  death  might  bring  for  the  toiler  rest — 
Give  her  splendid  liberty  from  her  prison  room. 


She  had  never  time  to  weep,  dim  eyes  and  holiday, 
Left  her  roses  all  unborn,  left  the  cupboard  bare. 

Now  she  cried  and  rising  flung  roses  all  away, 
Swift  as  any  lady  ran  down  the  narrow  stair. 
[28] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE   HUMAN  TOUCH   (Continued) 

All  the  pretty  ladies  prayed,  with  uplifted  glance, 

Thanked  God  that  each  lovely  life  had  not  met  its 
doom, 
She  prayed  in  her  prison  place  for  the  "lucky  chance" 

That  had  saved  her  sweated  life  from  the  restful  tomb. 

Thanked  God  she  made  roses  still  for  pretty  ladies' 
wear, 

Threepence  for  a  dozen  such,  working  to  the  night. 
Dragged  into  a  hurried  knot  all  her  dusty  hair — 

Eyes  foolish  with  fatigue  straining  to  the  light. 


[29] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE    ROAD    OF   THE    REFUGEES 

LISTEN  to  the  tramping !     Oh,  God  of  pity,  listen ! 
Can  we  kneel  at  prayer,  sleep  all  unmolested, 
While  the  echo  thunders? — God  of  pity,  listen! 
Can  we  think  of  prayer — or  sleep — so  arrested? 

Million  upon  million  fleeing  feet  in  passing 

Trample  down  our  prayers — trample  down  our  sleep- 
ing; 

How  the  patient  roads  groan  beneath  the  massing 
Of  the  feet  in  going,  bleeding,  running,  creeping! 

Clank  of  iron  shoe,  unshod  hooves  of  cattle, 

Pad  of  roaming  hound,  creak  of  wheel  in  turning, 

Clank  of  dragging  chain,  harness  ring  and  rattle, 
Groan  of  breaking  beam,  crash  of  roof-tree  burning. 

Listen  to  the  tramping! — God  of  love  and  pity! 

Million  upon  million  fleeing  feet  in  passing 
Driven  by  the  war  out  of  field  and  city, 

How  the  sullen  road  echoes  to  the  massing ! 
[30] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  ROAD  OF  THE  REFUGEES   (Continued) 
Little  feet  of  children,  running,  leaping,  lagging, 

Toiling  feet  of  women,  wounded,  weary  guiding, 
Slow  feet  of  the  aged,  stumbling,  halting,  flagging, 

Strong  feet  of  the  men  loud  in  passion  striding. 

Hear  the  lost  feet  straying,  from  the  roadway  slipping, 
They  will  walk  no  longer  in  this  march  appalling; 

Hear  the  sound  of  rain  dripping,  dripping,  dripping, 
Is  it  rain  or  tears?     What,  O  God,  is  falling? 

Hear  the  flying  feet !    Lord  of  love  and  pity ! 

Crushing   down    our   prayers,   tramping   down    our 
sleeping, 
Driven  by  the  war  out  of  field  and  city, 

Million  upon  million,  running,  bleeding,  creeping. 


[31] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


HEROD 

The  Virgin  speaks: 

DRAW  back  the  starry  curtains  of  the  night, 
O  Cherubim,  and  Seraphim! 
Pull  back  the  purple  curtains  of  the  night, 

For  I  would  look  once  more  upon  the  world, 
That  ere  my  sorrows  made  some  young  delight 
In  bird  and  bee  and  each  earth-flower  uncurled. 

Cherubim:  "Sancta  Virgo  Virginum." 

Let  me  behold  a  garden  rich  with  fruit, 
The  pomegranate  in  shade  of  cypress  trees, 

Vines  and  wild  honey,  and  the  small  bees'  lute, 
Where  aromatic  spices  fill  the  breeze. 

Seraphim:  "Virgo  fidelis." 

Let  me  behold  again  all  unafraid, 

Fair  Bethlehem  and  grey  Egyptian  sands, 

Let  me  but  see  the  spreading  cedar's  shade 
Where  once  I  hid  in  half-forgotten  lands. 
[32] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


HEROD   {Continued) 
Cherubim:  "Mater  amabilis." 

Let  me  but  watch  the  little  goats  that  leap 
On  the  rough  rocks  that  circle  Galilee, 

And  I  would  hear  the  swelling  waves  that  creep 
To  strike  strong  music  from  the  changing  sea. 

Seraphim:  "Mater  admirabilis." 

Draw  back  the  purple  curtain.     I  would  find 

A  people,  then  unborn,  yet  for  whose  sake 
I  was  most  blessed  amongst  womankind, 

And  bore  God's  son  their  heavy  sins  to  take 
Upon  himself,  so  He  in  anguish  died, 

To  teach  them  all  to  love  and  live  in  peace. 
Draw  now  the  starry  curtains  well  aside, 

And  all  the  lights  of  Heaven  swift  release. 

Cherubim:  "Mater  Christi." 

What  comes  to  me  from  far-off  broken  years? 

A  voice  in  Rama,  mourning  her  sad  lot ! 
Great  lamentations,  women's  cries  and  tears, 

A  Rachel  mourns  her  children  who  were  not. 

[33] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


HEROD   (Continued) 

Seraphim:  "Consolatrix  afflictorum." 

I  hear  again  from  out  the  singing  spheres 

A  mother's  scream,  and  all  her  whispered  prayer 

Stabbed  by  her  anguish,  faint  beneath  her  fears, 
I  hide  once  more  upon  that  far  earth  there. 

Cherubim:  "Regina  Marty  rum." 

Draw  close  the  starry  curtains  of  the  night 
Lest  Heaven  fade  and  I  forget  to  pray ; 

Here  God  is  love,  we  hate  nor  suffer  fight, 
What  Herod  lives  upon  the  earth  to-day? 

Cherubim:  "Da  pacem,  Domine,  sustinentibus  te, 
ut  Prophetae  tui  fideles  inveniantur." 

Seraphim:  "Pacem  relinquo  vobis,  pacem 
meam  do  vobis,  dicit  Dominus." 

Cherubim  and  Seraphim:  Alleluia. 


[34] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE   HOURS   OF   ILLNESS 

HOW  slow  creeps  time !     I  hear  the  midnight  chime, 
And  now  late  revellers  prepare  for  sleep; 
A  last  gay  voice  rings  in  a  passing  rhyme, 

And  past  my  door  the  anxious  footsteps  creep. 

The  little  clocks  from  hidden  places  call, 

'Tis  one  o'clock;  downstairs  the  big  clock's  bell 

Tolls  deep,  and  then  comes  forth  the  merry  chime, 
Like  laughing  children  calling,  "All  is  well !" 

'Tis  two  o'clock !     Why  in  the  lonesome  room 
This  creak  and  crack,  if  there  be  no  one  here? 

Whose  feet  disturb  the  loose  board  of  the  floor? 
Whose  secret  presence  fills  the  dark  with  fear? 

'Tis  three  o'clock!     O  God,  when  comes  sweet  rest? 

To  sleep,  to  sleep,  within  this  sleeping  house, 
Where  all  could  wake  with  less  fatigue  than  I, 

Where  no  one  stirs  save  some  adventurous  mouse! 

[35] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  HOURS  OF  ILLNESS   (Continued) 

'Tis  four  o'clock !     Death  stands  at  my  bed-head 

In  meditation  deep,  with  hidden  face, 
And  I  alone — a  coward — alone,  afraid, 

Lest  he  from  his  dread  brow  the  shroud  displace. 

'Tis  five  o'clock!     Within  the  empty  room, 
Threading  their  way,  the  happy  dead  appear, 

More  living  than  the  quick  in  this  still  night — 
All  whom  I  loved  or  held  me  ever  dear. 

'Tis  six  o'clock!     Death  moves  from  my  bed-head, 
Flings  high  the  shroud  from  off  his  hidden  face. 

"O  gentle  death !     O  fair  and  lovely  shade, 
Lift  this  sad  spirit  from  its  dwelling-place!" 

The  clock  at  seven!     Hear  the  milkman  come. 

Loud  clangs  the  gate;  the  room  is  chill  and  dark. 
The  maid,  reluctant  rising,  frees  the  door; 

A  dog  runs  forth  with  shrill,  offensive  bark. 

The  clock  strikes  eight!     The  curtains  pulled  aside 
Let  in  the  light,  so  cold,  so  bleak,  so  grey. 

From  their  dark  hiding  come  familiar  things, 
And  through  my  window  looks  another  day. 
[36] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


TO    BID    HER    LIVE 

BRING  to  her  spring  flowers, 
Cowslip  and  celandine, 
And  bid  her  hear  the  blackbird's  song. 
Let  pass  the  sunny  hours 
In  her  dull  room  to  shine, 
Lay  cherry  blossom  her  thin  arm  along. 

Bring  all  the  sweets  of  June, 

Pale  viola  and  rue, 

Garlands  of  fragrant  roses,  pink  and  white. 

The  young  birds'  broken  tune, 

The  larkspur  gold  and  blue, 

Let  in  the  gentle  harping  of  the  night. 

When  russet  autumn  comes, 
Lad's-love  and  lavender 

Fling  on  her  bed.     Go,  shake  red  apples  down, 
Sun-kissed  and  purple  plums, 
The  sweet  and  luscious  pear, 

Bring  her  on  leaves  of  crimson,  green,  and  brown. 

[37] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


TO  BID  HER  LIVE    (Continued) 

When  comes  the  winter  snow, 

Then  close  the  shutters  tight 

To  hide  the  falling  leaves  and  stricken  tree, 

The  silent  birds  that  go, 

Through  cold  and  cheerless  light, 

And  winter's  shroud  on  all  life's  liberty. 

Bear  her  the  holly  bough, 

And  on  the  glowing  hearth 

Let  twisted  flame  and  rebel  fires  roar. 

Bid  laughing  children  now 

Dance  round  her  in  their  mirth, 

And  call  her  fainting  spirit  home  once  more — 

Oh,  call  her,  call  her,  call  her  home  once  more ! 


[38] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


IF   YOU   SHOULD   PASS 

IF  by  my  tomb  some  day  you  careless  pass, 
A  moment  grieved  by  coming  on  my  name, 
Ah !  kneel  awhile  upon  the  tender  grass 

In  some  short  prayer  acquitting  me  of  blame. 

If  I  reached  not  your  pinnacle  of  right, 
Or  fell  below  your  standard  of  desire, 

If  to  my  heart  alone  my  hopes  were  white, 
And  my  soul  built  its  own  celestial  fire, 

Then  let  your  grief,  be  it  a  single  tear, 
Upon  your  cheek  in  tender  sorrow  fall, 

Forget  where  I  did  fail;  keep  only  dear 
The  deeds  for  which  you  loved  me  over  all. 

For  ah !  to  hear,  poor  shade  from  life  shut  out, 
Unkindly  tongues  to  trifle  with  my  name, 

So  that  remembrance  came  half-chilled  with  doubt 
In  conversations  less  of  praise  than  blame. 

[39] 


THE  SAB  YEARS 


IF  YOU  SHOULD  PASS   {Continued) 
For  if  thy  charity  be  overstrained 

And  would  bring  slander  where  it  cannot  bless, 
Give  me  but  silence  where  good  friendship  waned, 

Grant  me  the  mercy  of  forgetfulness. 


[40] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  TWO  PRAYERS 

LORD !  when  they  came  and  stood  upon  my  way, 
With  "One  is  dead,"  I  paused  awhile  to  pray, 
In  brief  thanksgiving  that  I  still  did  live 
On  the  good  earth  that  had  so  much  to  give. 
Through  my  sweet  garden  softly  did  I  go 
To  lift  some  lily's  head  that  hung  too  low, 
Or  bind  a  rebel  rose  that  sought  to  stray 
Across  my  path.     More  dear  were  they  to-day 
When  I  did  live  who  might  as  he  be  dead. 
"Was  ever  world  so  fair,"  I  whisp'ring  said. 
"Thank  God  for  eyes,  for  ears,  for  strength,  for  breath, 
All  that  he  hath  not  who  hath  tasted  death." 

But  when  they  went  in  silence,  to  my  heart 
Their  pity  pierced.     Then  came  the  poisoned  dart, 
With  "He  is  dead."     I  flung  me  low  to  pray. 
"Lord,  I  have  watched  through  the  uncertain  day 
When  he  was  far,  and  ev'ry  throbbing  hour, 
Half  lost  in  fear  the  joy  of  bird  or  flower. 
And  new  alarm  I  found  did  some  sharp  cry 

[41] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  TWO  PRAYERS   {Continued) 

Come  from  the  street,  or  did  a  foot  pass  by 

Swift  in  its  going.     All  did  threaten  him. 

Hear  me,  O  Lord,  who  sip  at  sorrow's  brim. 

Take  thou  these  eyes,  these  ears,  this   strength,  this 

breath. 
All  that  he  hath  not,  who  hath  tasted  death." 


[42] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


MOTHER 

IF  I  should  rise  amidst  the  assembled  dead, 
Calling  for  thee,  whose  fond  hands  often  led 
Me  in  young  years,  in  that  far  unknown  place 
To  help  me  there,  and  could  not  find  thy  face ! 

If  thou  wouldst  find  that  mother  who  was  free 
To  call  thee  hers,  as  I  have  need  of  thee; 
Or  I  stood  lost,  all  fear  and  dread  amaze, 
On  death's  great  plains  and  solitary  ways! 

Ah,  no,  ah,  no,  less  child  than  mother  thou! 
Have  I  not  seen  those  gentle  eyes,  that  brow, 
Bent  o'er  me  hours  less  grievous  than  to-day, 
When  on  some  childhood's  bed  I  fevered  lay? 

Couldst  thou  behold  me  sad  and  full  of  tears 
For  those  I  left,  nor  chide  my  lonesome  fears 
With  the  old  smile  on  thy  remembered  face, 
Holding  me,  wearied  so  from  life's  hard  race? 

[43] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


MOTHER   (Continued) 

Safe  in  this  thought,  I  give  myself  to  sleep — 
Sleep  that  may  wake  from  slumber  yet  more  deep, 
So  when  I  rise  from  all  death's  dread  alarms, 
I  see  thy  face  and  find  my  mother's  arms. 


[44] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


FOR   HE   HAD   GREAT   POSSESSIONS 

AND  I  had  died  before  the  spring  had  come, 
When  winter's  kiss  upon  the  fields  was  cold, 
And  no  small  seed  had  broken  up  the  land, 

Then  had  I  died,  whose  earthly  hours  were  told. 

I  should  have  liked  to  see  the  snowdrop  rise, 
And  pressed  my  lips  upon  the  primrose  bowl, 

To  see  the  thousand  spear-heads  of  new  grass, 
But  death  had  called  to  my  half-willing  soul. 

And  as  I  passed  there  came  the  sound  of  tears, 
Disturbing  me  and  dropping  o'er  my  face; 

I  could  not  plead  for  mercy  from  their  grief 

With  "Stay  thy  tears  that  chill  my  resting-place." 

But  I  returned,  in  pity  for  their  lot, 

Stood  by  my  bed  to  see  my  kindred  there ; 

About  my  house  I  heard  their  footsteps  go, 

Finding  my  goods  and  seeking  each  his  share. 

[45] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


FOR  HE  HAD  GREAT  POSSESSIONS   (Continued) 
My  desk,  my  shelf,  my  very  roof-tree's  shade 

They  sought  for  long,  and  o'er  my  lands  did  stray, 
And  then  returned  and  by  my  corpse  knelt  down 

With  folded  hands  to  murmur,  "Let  us  pray." 

And  as  they  bent  by  the  mysterious  dead, 
Naked  of  all,  from  all  possessions  free, 

I  saw  each  face — and  went  new  worlds  to  meet, 
For  what  was  I  to  them,  or  they  to  me  ? 

/ 


[46] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


I 


THE   SEA-MEW 

HAD  loved  the  pretty  birds   that  by  my  window 
sung — 
The  gentle  thrush  that  had  his  nest  the  perfumed  pines 

among; 
The  chaffinch  with  his  sudden  note,  his  song  so  clear  and 

bold; 
The  sad  rhyme  of  the  robin,  too,  that  came  when  winds 
grew  cold ; 

The  happy  lark  whose  benison  fell  from  the  sunny  sky ; 
The  blackbird  with  his  golden  lute  that  serenaded  by : 
The  nightingale  that  through  the  night  told  his  low 

rosary; 
The  finches,  with  their  little  tunes,  were  all  beloved  by 

me. 

I  leaned  to  hear  each  lovely  note  through  each  en- 
chanted day! 

And  thought  no  minstrelsy  so  fine,  while  all  content  I 
lay, 

[47] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  SEA-MEW  (Continued) 

When  to  my  ear,  across  the  sky,  I  heard  a  sea-bird's 

scream, 
And,  flapping  slow  across  the  blue,  I  saw  him  flash  and 

gleam. 

I  cared  not  then  for  singing  birds,  I  loved  the  sun  no 

more. 
I  heard  the  plashing  of  the  waves  upon  a  far-off  shore, 
And  lonely,  lonely  cried  my  heart  in  answer  to  its  call — 
Ah,  best  I  held  the  sea-mew's  note  that  had  no  song 

at  all! 


[48] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


LOVES  ME?  LOVES  ME  NOT? 

1    SHALL  rest  no  more  on  the  fragrant  mosses 
Under  great  trees  where  the  green  bough  tosses 
Scents  of  the  lime ;  and  the  wild  rose  flinging 
Sweets  to  the  breeze  with  their  censer  swinging, 
I  shall  count  no  more,  as  I  linger  lazy 
Deep  in  the  mead,  from  the  pink-tipped  daisy, 
"Who  loves  me  well,  and  who  leaves  me  lonely? 
Who  loves  me  not,  and  who  loves  me  only?" 

I  shall  walk  no  more  by  the  great  sea  dreaming 
Secret  dreams,  with  the  black  gull  screaming, 
Child  of  the  cliff  and  the  wan  wave  falling, 
Songless  he  cries  with  no  bird-like  calling. 
I  shall  seek  no  more  for  the  sea-shell's  story 
By  the  wet  sands  in  the  sunset  glory, 
Hear  the  sea  call  from  the  spiral  hollow, 
"Soul  who  is  seeking,  dare  you  not  follow?" 

Whom  have  I  loved,  and  who  loved  me  only? 
I  shall  stand  in  the  churchyard  lonely, 

[49] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


LOVES  ME?    LOVES  ME  NOT?  (Continued) 
And  see  the  tombs  of  the  dear  departed, 
Read  of  the  love  of  the  broken-hearted 
Writ  on  the  stones  how  they  loved  them  only, 
Who  loved  them  well  and  who  left  them  lonely? 
Yea!  I  shall  see  all  the  cold  white  faces 
Lying  so  still  in  their  secret  places. 

Under  the  earth  goes  the  last  new-comer, 
What  were  the  life  of  her,  winter-summer ! 
What  if  her  silent  grave  holds  one  only 
Who  loved  her  well,  and  who  left  her  lonely? 


[50] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE    SWALLOW 

HOW  I  hate  the  sparrows,  the  sparrows,  the  spar- 
rows. 
In  and  out  and  round  the  house  all  the  live-long  day, 
Chirping  shrill  and  fussy  birds,  with  their  silly  petty 
minds, 
Chittering  and  chattering,  yet  having  naught  to  say. 

How  I  love  the  swallows,  the  swallows,  the  swallows, 
Coming  from  a  far  land  of  minaret  and  dome. 

I  have  got  a  small  room,  like  a  clinging  cosy  nest, 
Built  upon  the  gable-end  of  my  country  home. 

On  its  wall  the  swallows  house,  who  can  find  its  secret 
door? 
Such  a  cunning  nursery,  made  with  Eastern  art. 
I  can  hear  the  baby  ones,  in  their  first,  swift,  troubled 
flight, 
Giving  little  frightened  cries  as  they  swoop  and  dart. 

And  I  hear  the  swallow-folk  telling  tales   of  foreign 
climes, 
In  a  low  sweet  lullaby  long  before  the  day. 

[51] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  SWALLOW   (Continued) 

Little  brothers   of  the  wind,   children   of  the   summer 
time, 
Lovers  of  the  summer  sky,  swift  you  fly  away ! 

I  will  dream  the  lone  long  hours,  sick  sad  days,  and 
weary  nights ; 
If  I  should  grow  well  again  I  will  follow  too, 
See  their  distant  happy  homes,  built  with  their  strange 
Eastern  art; 
I  shall  seek  but  smiling  lands,  skies  forever  blue. 

And  when  swallows  come  again  over  all  the  changing 
sea, 
Back  to  where  their  empty  nests  still  do  cling  and 
stay, 
I  shall  have  a  cabin,  too,  hidden  'neath  its  golden  thatch, 
Snow-white  on  a  mountain  side,  built  of  Irish  clay. 

I  will  leave  the  sparrows  here,  all  the  silly  noisy  birds, 
In  and  out  and  round  the  home  all  the  live-long  day, 

Chirping  shrill  and  fussy  ones,  with  their  shallow  spar- 
row minds, 
Chittering  and  chattering,  yet  having  naught  to  say. 


[53] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE   SECRET 

1KN0W  of  a  thrush's  nest,  a  pretty  nest,  a  cosy 
nest, 
I  know  of  a  thrush's  nest  with  three  fine  eggs  of  blue ; 
It  is  in  the  perfumed  pine,  the  tasselled  pine,  the  sway- 
ing pine, 
It  is  in  the  cool  dark  wood  that  I  have  wandered 
through. 

I  know  of  a  speckled  trout,  a  noble  trout,  a  shining 
trout, 
I  know  of  a  splendid  trout,  the  biggest  I  have  seen ; 
It  is  by  the  lonely  mill,  the  silent  mill,  the  old  spade 
mill, 
It  is  in  the  running  brook,  for  I  did  look  and  lean. 

I  know  of  a  pretty  maid,  a  laughing  maid,  a  happy  maid, 

I  know  of  a  darling  maid,  oh,  sweet  she  is  and  fair; 
She  waits  in  a  garden  bower,  a  rosy  bower,  a  hidden 
bower, 
What  the  way  to  this  dear  maid — is  neither  here  nor 
there ! 

[53] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


I   WANT   TO  TALK  TO   THEE 

1WANT  to  talk  to  thee  of  many  things 
Or  sit  in  silence  when  the  robin  sings 
His  little  song,  when  comes  the  winter  bleak 
I  want  to  sit  beside  thee,  cheek  by  cheek. 

I  want  to  hear  thy  voice  my  name  repeat, 
To  fill  my  heart  with  echoes  ever  sweet; 
I  want  to  hear  thy  love  come  calling  me, 
I  want  to  seek  and  find  but  thee,  but  thee. 

I  want  to  talk  to  thee  of  little  things 

So  fond,  so  frail,  so  foolish  that  one  clings 

To    keep    them    ours — who    could   but    understand 

A  joy  in  speaking  them,  thus  hand  in  hand 

Beside  the   fire;   our  joys,   our  hopes,   our   fears, 
Our  secret  laughter,  or  unchidden  tears ; 
Each  day  old  dreams  come  back  with  beating  wings, 
I  want  to  speak  of  these  forgotten  things. 
[54] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


I  WANT  TO  TALK  TO  THEE   {Continued) 
I  want  to  feel  thy  arms  around  me  pressed, 
To  hide  my  weeping  eyes  upon  thy  breast; 
I  want  thy  strength  to  hold  and  comfort  me 
For  all  the  grief  I  had  in  losing  thee. 


[35] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


COMFORT  THE  WOMEN 
A  Prayer  in  Time  of  War 

WHENCE   comes  the  rain  that  ceaselessly  doth 
fall, 
And  seems  to  hold  the  bitter  taste  of  tears? 
Is  it  the  lonely  sorrow  of  the  night 

Where  patient  women  shed  their  hopes  and  fears? 

Where  mothers'  hearts,  that  are  too  brave  to  break, 
Cry  in  the  silence  what  they  hid  by  day ; 

As  from  the  tear-drenched  pillow  they  arise, 

Proud  with  the  dawn,  and  shut  their  grief  away? 

Whence  comes  the  rain?     Is  it  from  Angel  eyes 
That  from  the  neutral  plains  of  Heaven  gaze 

Upon  this  tortured  earth?     They  hear  us  pray, 
And  see  our  strife,  in  pity  and  amaze ; 

Calling  on  Him,  again  so  crucified, 

In  divers  tongues  each  righteous  cause  to  care; 
Rage  unto  rage,  hate  unto  hate,  doth  shake 

The  doors  of  Heaven  with  its  impotent  prayer. 
[56] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


COMFORT  THE  WOMEN   {Continued) 

And  shall  my  cry  be  heard,  that  calls  so  faint, 

Through  scream  of  shell  and  mighty  cannon's  roar. 
Through  thunder  of  the  voices  that  appeal 

For  His  protection  at  God's  closed  door? 

"Comfort  the  women,  Lord,  my  neutral  prayer 
May  reach  Thy  pity  where  those  others  fail; 

Comfort  the  women  in  these  warring  lands 

Who  through  the  battles  go,  helpless  and  frail." 

Dim  are  their  eyes  that  watch  the  marching  past 
Of  all  the  splendid  manhood  and  strong  youth, 

Breaking  their  hearts,  who  are  so  proudly  still 
Lest  their  beloved  should  suffer  at  the  truth. 

'Twas  not  for  this  barbarity  of  war 

The  mother  breathless  hung  by  the  small  cot 

That  held  her  man-child,  fearing  lest  a  wind 

Would  blow  too  chill,  or  sun  would  shine  too  hot. 

Or  stayed  her  swifter  feet  so  he  might  run 
Not  lost  behind,  and  with  all  gentle  hand 

Holding  him  hers,  who  now  has  left  her  lone. 

Comfort  the  mothers,  Lord,  through  each  sad  land. 

[57] 


THE  SAB  YEARS 


COMFORT  THE  WOMEN   (Continued) 
Protect  the  women — they  so  helpless  slain 

By  each  sharp  sword  that  strikes  a  dear  one  down, 
Who  on  the  battlefield  in  spirit  go 

Without  the  war's  red  splendour  or  renown. 

Lord,  'mid  this  discord  of  Thy  Christian  world, 
'Mid  the  loud  praying  of  men's  hopes  and  fears, 

Comfort  the  women,  let  this  cry  be  heard, 

For  Thou  hast  known  a  human  mother's  tears. 


[58] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  SINKING  SHIP 

THE  ship  is  sinking,  come  ye  one  and  all. 
Stand  fast  and  so  this  weakness  overhaul, 
Come  ye  strong  hands  and  cheery  voices  call, 
"Stand  by!" 

The  ship  is  sinking  in  a  summer  sea, 
Bless  her  but  once  for  all  she  used  to  be, 
Who  rode  the  billows  once  so  proud  and  free, 
If  you  but  loved  a  little,  with  a  sigh, 
"Standby!" 

Gone,  all  are  gone,  they  neither  hear  or  care, 
The  sun  shines  on  and  life  is  ever  fair. 
They  shun  the  struggle,  laughter  lurks  elsewhere. 
The  ship  is  sinking,  passing  echoes  cry, 
"Stand  by!" 

The  little  ships  that  pass  her  in  the  night, 
Speed  from  the  darkness  in  their  eager  fright. 
From  troubled  dreams  they  take  refuge  in  flight. 
Why  should  they  then,  who  know  they  too  must  die, 
"Standby"? 

[59] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  SINKING  SHIP   {Continued) 
Then  get  you  gone,  desert  the  sinking  ship, 
O  faithless  friends,  who  on  her  pleasure-trip 
Clung  close  with  gentle  words  and  smiling  lip, 
And  still  as  ever  on  your  own  joys  cry, 
"Stand  by !" 

The  ship  is  sinking,  parting  in  a  smile, 
The  sunset  waters  mark  the  last  sad  mile 
In  dimpling  play  and  in  a  little  while 
The  waters  close,  Death  and  his  angels  cry, 
"Stand  by!" 


[60] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


NORA 

WITHIN   an   English  village  yesterday 
I  came  upon  a  little  child  at  play. 
I  lingered  by  to  watch  the  baby  game, 
And  heard   some   voice   call   gently   on  her  name. 

Sweet  she  replied.     How  leaped  my  heart  to  hear 

The  pretty  notes,  the  accent  ever  dear, 

Shy  as  the  wind  soft  singing  from  the  South! 

I,  hungry,  kissed  the  brogue  upon  her  mouth. 


[61] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  LOITERER 

WHEN  Youth,  led  on  by  love   and  folly,  strays, 
Kissing  sweet  eyes  beyond  the  allotted  hour 
That  he  should  turn  to  labour  and  forget 
Beyond  his  window  beauty  breaks  to  flower. 

O  greybeard,  pause  before  thy  anger  strikes 
Those  joyful  moments  from  his  happy  face. 

They  make  a  glory  of  his  sullen  task 

And  turn  his  workshop  to  a  godly  place. 

Thou  couldst  not  scold  if  by  thy  window  wide 
A  mating  thrush  his  love-song  softly  sung, 

And  the  green  horn  of  Spring  blew  Summer  airs 

That  once  thou  chorused  well  when  thou  wert  young. 

Then,  greybeard,  chase  the  frown  from  off  thy  brow, 
Since  Time,  alas !  will  soon  belabour  him ; 

And  think  what  would  become  of  joyous  Spring 
Were  hoary  Winter  to  be  always  grim. 


[62] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE    PATCHWORK    QUILT 

BRING  to  me  white  roses,  roses,  pinks,  and  lavender, 
Sweet    stock    and   gillyflowers,    poppies    mauve 
and  red, 
Bee-flowers  and  mignonette,  with  blue  forget-me-not — 
I  would  make  a  coverlet  for  my  narrow  bed. 


Bring  me  no  silken  cloth,  velvet  sheen  or  satin  shine, 
Gossamer  of  woven  lace,  gold  and  silver  thread, 
Purple  deep  and  dove,  and  grey,  through  my  idle  fingers 
fall, 
Bidding   me   in   patient    hours    make   a   patchwork 
spread. 


Since  I  must  go  forth  alone,  far  beyond  the  roof-tree's 
shade, 
Out  into  the  open  soon  lonely  there  to  lie, 
What  want  I  of  silken  cloth  woven  by  the  hands  of  men? 
Time  would  soon  despoil  me  there  as  he  passed  me  by. 

[63] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  PATCHWORK  QUILT   (Continued) 

Bring  to  me  white  roses  then,  roses,  pinks  and  lavender, 

Sweet  stock  and  gillyflowers,  poppies  gold  and  red, 
Bee-flowers  and  mignonette  and  blue  forget-me-not, 

So  I  have  a  coverlet  for  my  narrow  bed. 


[64] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


OURSELVES    ALONE 

ONE  morning,  when  dreaming  in  deep  meditation, 
I  met  a  sweet  colleen  a-making  her  moan. 
With  sighing  and  sobbing  she  cried  and  lamented: 
"Oh  where  is  my  lost  one,  and  where  has  he  flown?" 

My  house  it  is  small,  and  my  field  is  but  little, 
Yet  round  flew  my  wheel  as  I  sat  in  the  sun. 

He  crossed  the  deep  sea  and  went  forth  for  my  battle: 
Oh,  has  he  proved  faithless — the  fight  is  not  won? 

And  then  I  said:     "Kathleen,  ah!  do  you  remember 
When  you  were  a  queen,  and  your  castles  were  strong, 

You  cried  for  the  love  of  a  cold-hearted  stranger, 
And  in  your  fair  island  you  planted  the  wrong?" 

"And  oh,"  I  cried,  "Kathleen,  I  once  heard  you  weeping 
And  sighing  and  sobbing  and  making  your  moan. 

You  sang  of  a  lost  one,  a  dear  one,  a  false  one — 
'Oh,  gone  is  my  blackbird,  and  where  has  he  flown?' 

[65] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


OURSELVES  ALONE   (Continued) 

"Ah!  many  came  forth  to  the  sound  of  your  crying, 

And  fought  down  the  years  for  the  freedom  you  pined. 
How  many  lie  still,  in  their  cold  exile  sleeping, 

Who  sought  in  far  lands  your  lost  blackbird  to  find? 

"And  many  are  caught  in  the  net  of  the  stranger — 
Have  all  but  forgotten  the  sound  of  your  name, 

For  other  loves  call  them  to  help  and  to  save  them ! 
They  fell  to  dishonour — we  hold  them  in  shame. 

"Oh,  why  drive  me  forth  from  your  hearth  into  exile 
And  into  far  dangers?     Your  house  is  my  own. 

Faithful  I  serve,  as  I  ever  did  serve  you, 
Standing  together,  ourselves — and  alone." 


[66] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  PRISONER 

ALL  day  I  lie  beneath  the  great  pine  tree, 
Whose  perfumed  branches  wave  and  shadow  me, 
I  hear  the  groaning  of  its  straining  heart 
As  in  the  breeze  its  thin  leaves  meet  and  part 
Like  frantic  fingers  loosened  and  entwined, 
I  hear  it  whisper  to  the  sighing  wind, 
"What  of  the  mountain  peaks,  where  I  was  born?" 
As  sharp  tears  drop  I  feel  its  falling  thorn. 

I  see  in  the  far  clouds  the  wild  geese  fly, 
Homeward  once  more,   free,  in   the  storm-swept   sky. 
Back  to  the  land  they  loved,  all,  all,  have  gone, 
How  swift  the  flight  by  joy  and  hope  led  on. 
"What  of  the  mountain  land  where  I  was  born?" 
I  cry,  they  pass,  glad  in  the  dawning  morn, 
Home  to  the  moon-pale  lake,  the  heath-clad  hill, 
And  give  no  thought  for  one  imprisoned  still. 

All  day  I  lie  beneath  the  sad  pine  tree, 
Whose  groaning  branches  wave  and  shadow  me, 

[67] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE   PRISONER   (Continued) 
Chained  to  the  earth,  the  dark  clay  of  the  grave, 
In  helpless  passion  feel  its  wild  heart  rave, 
"Free,  set  me  free,"  I  hear  its  moaning  breath, 
Where  liberty  means  nought,  alas,  but  death. 
Ah,  freedom  is  but  death. 


[68] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


SICK    I    AM    AND    SORROWFUL 

SICK  I  am  and  sorrowful,  how  can  I  be  well  again 
Here,  where  fog  and  darkness  are,  and  big  guns 
boom  all  day, 
Practising  for  evil  sport?     If  you  speak  humanity, 
Hatred  comes  into  each  face,  and  so  you  cease  to 
pray. 

How  I  dread  the  sound  of  guns,  hate  the  bark  of  mus- 
ketry, 
Since  the  friends  I  loved  are  dead,  all  stricken  by  the 
sword. 
Full  of  anger  is  my  heart,  full  of  rage  and  misery; 
How  can  I  grow  well  again,  or  be  my  peace  restored? 

If  I  were  in  Glenmalure,  or  in  Enniskerry  now, 

Hearing  of  the  coming  spring  in  the  pine-tree's  song ; 
If  I  woke  on  Arran  Strand,  dreamt  me  on  the  cliffs  of 
Moher, 
Could  I  not  grow  gay  again,  should  I  not  be  strong? 

[69] 


THE  SAB  YEARS 


SICK  I  AM  AND  SORROWFUL  {Continued) 
If  I  stood  with  eager  heart  on  the  heights  of  Carrantuo- 
hill, 
Beaten  by  the  four  great  winds  into  hope  and  joy 
again, 
Far  above  the  cannons'  roar  or  the  scream  of  musketry, 
If  I  heard  the  four  great  seas,  what  were  weariness 
or  pain? 

Were  I  in  a  little  town,  Ballybunnion,  Ballybrack, 
Laughing  with  the  children  there,  I  would  sing  and 
dance  once  more, 
Hear  again  the  storm  clouds  roll  hanging  over  Lugna- 
quilla, 
Build  dream  castles  from  the  sands   of  Killarney's 
golden  shore. 

If  I  saw  the  wild  geese  fly  over  the  dark  lakes  of  Kerry 

Or  could  hear  the  secret  winds,  I  could  kneel  and 

pray. 

But  'tis  sick  I  am  and  grieving,  how  can  I  be  well  again 

Here,  where  fear  and  sorrow  are — my  heart  so  far 

away  ? 


[TO] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


HOME 

I  WANT  to  go  to  the  heather  hills, 
To  the  heather  hills  and  rocky  shore 
I  want  to  climb  to  Ben-Edar's  heights, 
And  to  smell  the  sea  once  more. 

I  want  to  talk  by  an  Ulster  hearth, 
Where  welcome  ever  a  stranger  finds, 

I  want  to  stand  on  a  Connaught  hill, 
And  sing  to  the  four  great  winds. 

I  want  to  see  on  a  Kerry  moor 

The  purple  turf  smoke,  coil,  and  soar, 
I  want  to  hear  a  soft  Munster  voice 

That  sings  by  a  cottage  door. 

I  want  to  go  to  the  Leinster  hills, 

To  the  Dublin  hills  by  the  rocky  shore. 

I  want  to  climb  to  Ben-Edar's  heights — 
I  want  to  be  home  once  more. 


[71] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


I    SAW   CHILDREN    PLAYING 

1SAW  children  playing,  dancing  in  a  ring, 
Till  a  voice  came  calling,  calling  one  away; 
With  sad  backward  glances  she  went  loitering, 
Hoping  they  would  miss  her  and  so  cease  to  play. 

Pettishly  and  pouting,  "  'Tis  not  time  to  sleep." 
Sobbing  and  protesting,  slowly  she  did  go ; 

But  her  merry  comrades  they  all  run  and  leap, 
Feeling  not  her  absence,  heeding  not  her  woe. 

So  as  I  went  chatting  through  the  city's  hum, 
With  my  old  companions  laughing  on  the  way, 

Came  a  voice  low  calling,  calling  me  to  come 
To  my  lonely  sleeping,  leaving  work  and  play. 

With  sad,  mournful  glances  do  I  look  to  see 
If  a  heart  should  loving  pause  and  turn  aside 

From  the  happy  circles  and  then  come  to  me, 
Sighing,  "Do  not  leave  us — still  with  us  abide." 
[72] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


I  SAW  CHILDREN  PLAYING  (Continued) 
No !  they  still  are  playing,  chatting  in  a  ring, 

Eager  voices  seeking  other  games  to  know. 
Lone  I  go  protesting — hear  them  laugh  and  sing, 

Feeling  not  my  absence,  heeding  not  my  woe. 


73] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


A    STUDENT'S    SONG 

Air.     Wrap  me  up  in  my  old  stable  jacket. 

WHEN  I  was  a  merry  young  fellow 
I  loved  the  red  juice  of  the  grape. 
I  would  drink  till  I  grew  gay  and  mellow, 
From  Morpheus  I  could  not  escape. 

I  would  give  myself  freely  to  slumber 
Nor  feared  to  go  lonely  to  sleep, 

I  was  lost  for  dark  hours  without  number 
My  soul  to  oblivion  would  creep. 

Then  why  do  I  now  shake  and  tremble 

As  death  comes  to  bid  me  lie  still, 
In  a  silence  that  sleep  doth  resemble 

Who  sought  such  a  slumber  at  will? 

Then  death  be  your  cup  but  the  stronger, 
For  why  should  I  fear  me  to  sleep? 

For  I  shall  but  slumber  the  longer 
And  drink  but  a   little  more  deep. 
[74] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE    TREE    UPROOTED 

THE  earth-bound  giant  now  is  free,  is  free ; 
The  last  fight  over,  and  the  last  moan  still; 
No  tale  of  snow-clad  heights  where  great  dreams  be, 
His  exile  heart  can  thrill. 

Ah,  how  he  cried  with  groaning  branch  and  bough ! 

For  that  far  land  beyond  the  sunshine  morn, 
For  that  lost  joy  tilled  earth  will  not  allow, 

That  land  where  he  was  born. 

Ah!  how  his  heart  that  fought  for  freedom  pined; 

His  leaves,  like  restless  fingers,  tried  to  hold 
The  trailing  garments  of  the  passing  wind, 

His  struggle  manifold. 

The  four  winds  heard  and  strove  with  mighty  hands 
To  bear  him  back  to  that  far  northern  height 

Where  he  was  born;  loosed  from  his   earthly  bands, 
He  poised,  a  moment's  flight. 

[75] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  TREE  UPROOTED   {Continued) 
Then  to  the  wind  in  passionate  embrace 

His  branches  moved — out  sung  his  parting  breath. 
He  leaned  to  freedom  from  his  prison  place, 

Whose  freedom  was  but  death. 

Better  so  lie,  from  this  dire  bondage  free, 
O  heart  who  knew  the  silence  of  the  snows ! 

Than  stand  alone,  O   solitary  tree, 
Where  English  greenwood  grows. 

Better  to  die  than  live  in  dull  disgrace, 

O  soul  that  dreamed  the  glory  of  the  dream! 

To  be  for  sparrows  but  a  resting  place, 
Who  heard  the  eagle  scream. 


[76] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


MIGRATORY    BIRDS 

I  HAVE  listened  for  the  beat 
Of  slow  wings  across  the  sea. 
In  their  strange  and  dumb  retreat 
From  their  foreign  liberty. 

Come  the  birds  from  northern  lands, 
Where  the  Russian  sleigh-bells  chime, 

From  the  hungry  desert  sands 
Of  a  southern  clime. 

Come  the  birds  where  Eastern  air, 

Pierced  by  lofty  minaret, 
Echoes  far  the  Turkish  prayer 

Of  a  God  we  half  forget. 

In  my  garden  I  have  strayed 

Through  the  warm  sweet  days  of  Spring, 
Bent  to  each  small  nest,  delayed 

By  the  young  birds'  fluttering. 

[77] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


MIGRATORY  BIRDS   (Continued) 
To  the  soft,  song-laden  wind 

Leant  in  hope  and  half  in  fear, 
One  low  perfect  note  to  find 
In  the  joyous  tumult  here. 

There's  no  bird  upon  the  wing, 
There's  no  fledgeling  in  the  nest, 

There's  no  song  where  others  sing 
More  glorious  than  the  rest. 

Is  he  caged  without  release 

Who  makes  all  lovely  things  to  be? 
What  holds  the  gentle  bird  of  Peace, 

God's  hand,  or  human  frailty? 


[78] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


A    FANTASY 

I  SAW  Winter  'neath  a  spindle  tree, 
She  plucked  berries  bright  to  crown  her  head. 
She  was  singing  little  robin's  song 

While  wild  beech-leaves  round  and  round  her  spread. 

I  ran  home  into  my  little  house, 

Pulled  to  the  shutters,  barred  up  the  door ; 

I  knelt  down  to  blow  the  fire  to  flame, 
Great  dark  shadows  danced  upon  the  floor. 

Long-legged  shadows  came  from  corners  drear, 
Leaped  up  white  walls,  fell,  and  climbed  again. 

I  hear  North  Wind  pushing  at  the  gate, 
I  won't  open,  not  for  wind  or  rain. 

Oh,  run  home,  wee  ones,  lest  the  whirling  leaves 

Take  ye  far  away,  fairy  folk  to  see. 
Crowning  her  dark  hair  with  berries  red 

I  saw  Winter  'neath  a  spindle  tree. 


[79] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE    DEAD    SOLDIER 

Where  the  sword  has  opened  the  way  the  man  can  follow. 

OOK !  they  come,  the  triumphant  army ! 
Over  yon  hill  see  their  weapons  peeping." 
Still  I  spoke  not,  but  my  wheel  sent  turning; 

I  closed  my  eyes,  for  my  heart  was  weeping, 
My  heart  was  weeping  for  a  dead  soldier. 

"Who  is  he  who  looks  towards  me?" 
"  'Tis  no  man,  but  a  gay  flag  flying." 

Red  was  his  mouth  and  his  white  brow  thoughtful, 
Blue  his  eyes — how  my  soul  is  crying, 

My  soul  is  crying  for  a  dead  soldier. 

"Kneel  ye  down,  lest  your  eyes  should  dare  them. 

Kneel  ye  down  and  your  beads  be  saying." 
"Lord,  on  their  heads  Thy  wrath  deliver." 

This  is  the  prayer  that  my  lips  are  praying, 
My  heart  is  praying  for  a  dead  soldier. 

[80] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  DEAD  SOLDIER   {Continued) 

"Best  cheer  the  path  of  the  men  victorious, 

For  he  is  dead  and  his  blade  lies  broken. 
His  march  is  far  where  no  aid  can  follow, 

And  for  his  people  he  left  no  token; 
He  left  no  token,  the  dead  soldier." 

The  way  of  the  sword  a  man  can  follow, 

See  the  young  child  with  his  gold  hair  gleaming. 

When  falls  the  oak  must  the  acorn  perish? 
He  lifts  the  blade  and  his  eyes  are  dreaming; 

He  dreams  the  dream  of  the  dead  soldier. 


[81] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE    QUEEN 

1SAW  her  many  years  ago,  my  gladness  and  my 
grief. 
She  stood  amongst  the  barley  fields  to  bind  the  wayward 

sheaf. 
She  walked  upon  the  mountain's  side  to  draw  the  brown 

turf  home, 
She  planted  many  famine  crops  within  the  peaty  loam. 
From  rugged  rocks  and  silver  shore  she  gathered  grey 

sloakeen. 
She  made  the  green  earth  brown  again,  and  made  the 

brown  earth  green. 
She  wearied  in  those  striving  years  from  morning  until 

night. 
Her  fields  grew  wide,  her  stately  home  shone  in  the 

morning  light. 
But  oh,  those  hours  of  yesterday,  mo  storeen  and  mo 

crie, 
I  saw  her  turn  her  face  away  to  hide  her  grief  from  me. 

I  flew  to  her  a  while  ago,  my  thousand  joys — so  dear; 
For  ruin  fell  upon  her  house  and  I  was  full  of  fear. 
[82] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  QUEEN   (Continued) 

I  saw  wild  fury  seize  her  home,  I  heard  a  red  wind 

scream, 
I  saw  the  groaning  roof-tree  fall,  the  flame  on  wall  and 

beam. 
I  fell  upon  the  broken  way,  struck  down  by  chill  despair : 
"My  life's  long  love,  my  only  joy,  my  dear  beyond 

compare, 
A  thousand  souls  will  bleed  with  mine,  a  thousand  hearts 

expire, 
To  see  so  fair  a  form  as  thine  upon  a  martyr's  fire." 
From  out  the  glow,  from  out  the  flame,  from  ruin  fierce 

and  wild, 
I  saw  her  come  with  dancing  feet  and  glad  face  like  a 

child, 
Her  red-gold  hair,  her  snow-white  brow,  her  gown  of 

silken  green : 
Out  through  the  ruins  of  her  home,  she  walked  as  would 

a  queen. 
Ni  Houlihan,  Ni  Houlihan,  she  came  a  splendid  queen. 


[88] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE    SACRED    FIRE 

THEY  lit  a  fire  within  their  land  that  long  was 
ashes  cold, 
With  splendid  dreams  they  made  it  glow,  threw  in  their 

hearts  of  gold. 
They  saw  thy  slowly  paling  cheek  and  knew  thy  failing 

breath, 
They  bade  thee  live  once  more,  Kathleen,  who  wert  so 

nigh  to  death. 
And  who  dare  quench  the  sacred  fire,  and  who  dare  give 

them  blame, 
Since  he  who  draws  too  near  the  glow  shall  break  into 

a  flame? 
They  lit  a  beacon  in  their  land,  built  of  the  souls  of  men, 
To  make  thee  warm  once  more,  Kathleen,  to  bid  thee 

live  again. 


[84] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THEY    DID    NOT    SEE    THY    FACE 

SOME  on  the  pleasant  hillside  have  thought  they 
saw  thee  pass, 
As  flings  a  cloud  before  the  sun  a  shadow  on  the  grass. 
They  praised  thy  fairness  and  held  dear  thy  meekness 

and  thy  grace; 
They  only  saw  thy  shade,  Kathleen,  they  did  not  see 
thy  face. 

Some  on  the  purple  mountains  stood  to  see  thee  speed- 
ing by, 

As  glides  a  sudden  golden  shaft  across  the  stormy  sky ; 

And  these  were  braggarts  of  their  love  within  thy 
dwelling-place ; 

They  saw  thy  beauty,  Rosin  Dubh,  they  did  not  see  thy 
face. 


But  some  in  flames  of  battle  strove  their  slender  weight 

to  throw 
Against  the  bayonet  and  the  gun  that  hid  thy  only  foe ; 

[85] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THEY  DID  NOT  SEE  THY  FACE   {Continued) 
They  left  for  thee  their  earthly  loves,  these  heroes  of 

thy  race, 
And  died,  as  all  must  die,  Kathleen,  who  once  have  seen 

thy  face. 

So  must  thy  grief  be  ever  new  who  holds  a  love  like  this, 
That  thrusts  away  a  dear  one's  heart,  a  little  child's 

soft  kiss, 
That  leaves  behind  an  honoured  home,  a  Mother's  fond 

embrace, 
Till  others  seek  again,  Kathleen,  to  see  thy  hidden  face. 


[86] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE    WREATH 

Easter,  1917 

HERE  on  my  path  by  some  hard  fate  struck  down, 
When  life  at  last  held  out  full  hands  to  me. 
When  the  great  dreams  of  younger  years  awoke 
And  dear  dead  voices  whispered  "Liberty." 
Ah,  cruel  blow,  from  which  I  stricken  rise 
And  blindly  stagger  for  that  path  again, 
To  wonder  if  'tis  worth  the  striving  now, 
Thus  robbed  upon  life's  highway  and  half  slain. 

Here  I  awoke  to  fear  again  the  dead, 
Whose  tender  faces  held  me  as  I  slept. 
Ah,  well  I  knew  who  leaned  above  me  there, 
Into  whose  arms  so  pitiful  I  crept. 
And  I  awoke,  for  Spring  did  cry  "Arise ! 
For  birds  within  the  green  woods  carol  clear." 
Then  Easter  came  with  wreath  of  lilies  pale, 
Placed  on  my  heart  the  grief  of  yester-year. 


[87] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE    DEFENDERS 

LEAVE  me  my  dreams,  and  I  shall  not  repine; 
Youth's  eager  hours,  love's  restless  holiday. 
Leave  me  my  dreams,  a  castled  garden  mine — 
Where  all  unchid  my  wand'ring  feet  can  stray. 

Leave  me  my  dreams,  the  foe  is  at  my  door, 

Time's  swinging  scythe,  and  disappointed  years. 

Leave  me  my  dreams,  and  they  can  yet  restore 
The  crumbling  walls,  where  crouch  invading  fears. 

Leave  me  my  dreams,  nor  can  rude  sorrow  break 
Into  my  fortress  where  content  I  go. 

Leave  me  my  dreams,  and  who  dare  combat  make 
On  Youth's  sweet  hours,  or  lay  Hope's  castle  low  ? 


[88] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


A    SONG    FOR    EVALEEN 

SING  a  song  for  Evaleen,  only  two  years  old, 
Running  laughing  on  life's  path  in  her  wilful 
way; 
Christ-Child,  Whom  on  Mary's  knee  her  loving  arms 
enfold, 
Let  Thy  little  angels  come  with  this  babe  to  play. 

One  to  guide  her  either  hand,  so  what  deed  it  do, 
It  shall  neither  give  nor  take  grievous  hurt  or  pain ; 

Let  these  little  fingers  pull  blossoms  fair  and  true 
For  the  glory  of  Thy  feet,  without  thorn  or  stain. 

One  to  whisper  songs  of  joy  in  her  listening  ear, 

So  the  sad  world's  bitter  cries  reach  her  but  afar; 

So  that  evil,  on  his  way,  finds  no  welcome  here, 

Let  but  white  words  come  to  her  where  Thy  angels 
are. 

One  to  guard  her  dimpled  mouth,  laughing  in  its  glee, 
So  it  say  no  cruel  words,  nor  let  anger  call ; 

[89] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


A  SONG  FOR  EVALEEN   (Continued) 

Let  it  make  for  all  who  hear  golden  melody, 

So  it  raise  some  stricken  heart  where  the  tune  may 
fall. 

One  to  keep  her  baby  eyes  from  despair  and  tears, 
Let  them  find  the  lovely  things  of  thy  wondrous  ways ; 

So  they  grow  not  dull  with  grief  or  too  bright  with 
fears — 
Let  them  see  but  splendid  deeds  meriting  Thy  praise. 

One  to  guide  her  wilful  feet  lest  they  lose  the  way 

On  their  perilous  woman's  path,  where  such  dangers 
be; 
Guide  her  little  baby  feet  so  they  never  stray 

Far  from  where  Thou  art  a  Child  held  on  Mary's 
knee. 

One  to  bless  her  every  deed,  every  thought  new-born, 
Bless  her  in  the  summer-time  and  in  the  winter's  cold, 

Bless  her  in  the  dark  of  night  and  in  the  dawn  of  morn, 
This  a  song  for  Evaleen,  only  two  years  old. 


[90] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE    COMFORTERS 

WHEN  I  crept  over  the  hill,  broken  with  tears. 
When  I  crouched  down  on  the  grass,  dumb  in 
despair, 
I  heard  the  soft  croon  of  the  wind  bend  to  my  ears, 
I  felt  the  light  kiss  of  the  wind  touching  my  hair. 

When  I  stood  lone  on  the  height  my  sorrow  did  speak, 
As  I  went  down  the  hill,  I  cried  and  I  cried, 

The  soft  little  hands  of  the  rain  stroking  my  cheek, 
The  kind  little  feet  of  the  rain  ran  by  my  side. 

When  I  went  to  thy  grave,  broken  with  tears, 

When  I  crouched  down  in  the  grass,  dumb  in  despair, 

I  heard  the  sweet  croon  of  the  wind  soft  in  my  ears, 
I  felt  the  kind  lips  of  the  wind  touching  my  hair. 

When  I  stood  lone  by  thy  cross,  sorrow  did  speak. 

When  I  went  down  the  long  hill,  I  cried  and  I  cried. 
The  soft  little  hands  of  the  rain  stroked  my  pale  cheek, 

The  kind  little  feet  of  the  rain  ran  by  my  side. 

[91] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE    BLACK    HORSEMAN 

LIFT  me  up  from  this  bed  of  sickness ; 
I  am  going  out  to  meet  the  summer. 
I  will  run  into  the  arms  of  Sunshine 

And  be  so  comforted,  the  first  new-comer. 
"I  will  lift  you  up,"  said  the  black  horseman. 


I  shall  climb  over  the  lone  hill-tops, 

I  shall  sail  unto  the  far  places, 
Eat  of  wheaten  bread  and  the  wild  honey, 

See  the  dark  eyes  of  Eastern  races. 
"You  shall  come  with  me,"  said  the  black  horseman. 


Lay  me  down  on  my  bed  of  dreaming. 

It  is  best,  for  am  I  not  too  weary 
Walking  the  white  wide  roads  about  the  world? 

Here  night  is  not  too  long,  nor  day  too  dreary. 
"Do  you  not  fear  me?"  said  the  black  horseman. 
[92] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  BLACK  HORSEMAN   (Continued) 

Why  should  I  fear  when  there  are  friends  before  me? 

I  grow  old  who  used  to  roam  enraptured, 
Yet  I  am  young  for  even  more  exploring, 

Whose  day  is  o'er  and  each  wild  joy  is  captured. 
"I  am  the  best  adventure,"  smiled  the  black  horseman. 


[93] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


ON    THE    OTHER    SIDE 

WHAT  will  you  do  through  the  waiting  days, 
What  will  my  darling  do? 
Will  you  sleep,  or  wander  in  those  strange  ways 
Until  I  can  come  to  you? 

Do  you  cry  at  the  door  as  I  cry  here, 

Death's  door  that  lies  between? 
Do  you  plead  in  vain  for  my  love,  my  dear, 

As  you  stand  by  my  side  unseen? 

Who  will  comfort  your  difficult  ways 

That  were  hard  to  understand, 
When  I  who  knew  you  through  all  your  days, 

Can  give  you  no  helping  hand  ? 

When  I  who  loved  you  no  word  can  speak, 
Though  your  ghost  should  cry  to  me, 

Can  give  no  help,  though  my  heart  should  break 
At  the  thought  of  your  agony. 
[94] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


ON  THE  OTHER  SIDE   (Continued) 

You  were  shy  of  strangers — and  who  will  come 

As  you  stand  there  lone  and  new, 
Through  the  long  years  when  my  lips  are  dumb 
What  will  my  darling  do? 


[95] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE    HOUSE    OF    CARDS 

OTHE  chatter,  chatter,  chatter, 
Of  the  things  that  do  not  matter. 
Little  wordy  things  that  clatter, 
Restless  feet  that  pitter  patter, 
All  my  pretty  houses  scatter, 
All  my  noble  castles  scatter. 

See  I  build  it  tower  by  tower, 
Kingly  hall  and  queenly  bower, 
Into  skies  celestial  throwing, 
Spire  and  turret  upward  growing, 
Prisoned  sunshine  for  its  lighting, 
Rainbow  beams  its  roof  uniting. 
Kings  and  queens  and  noble  people 
Look  from  turret,  peep  from  steeple, 
With  a  handsome  knave  or  two 
All  the  fairy  ways  pursue. 

But  the  clatter,  clatter,  clatter, 
Of  the  things  that  do  not  matter, 
[96] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  HOUSE  OF  CARDS   (Continued) 
All  the  talk  of  dining,  wining, 
Discontented  people  whining, 
All  my  pretty  houses  scatter, 
All  my  noble  castles  scatter. 


See  from  out  yon  casement  shady, 
Leans  a  fair  and  lovely  lady. 
Gems  and  jewels  flashing,  gleaming. 
,'Tis  the  queen  of  diamonds  dreaming. 
She  is  sad  and  somewhat  lonely, 
All  she  lost  in  loving  only 
Riches,  games  were  all  her  passion, 
She  is  mourning  in  her  fashion. 
See,  she  leans,  her  casement  gracing, 
Watching  yonder  dark  king  pacing 
Up  and  down  the  paths  beneath  her. 
Does  she  dream  he'll  kneel,  entreat  her 
Into  love  with  serenading, 
At  her  coldness  stay  upbraiding? 
Ah,  she  wots  not  he  is  sighing, 
Only  is  his  fond  heart  sighing 
For  dark  eyes  and  nut-brown  tresses. 
'Tis  not  she  his  love-thought  blesses. 

[97] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  HOUSE  OF  CARDS   (Continued) 
Oh,  the  chatter,  chatter,  chatter, 
Of  the  things  that  never  matter. 
Of  the  tongues  that  rage  or  flatter 
And  the  countless  feet  that  clatter 
With  their  noisy  pitter  patter, 
Till  my  castles  all  they  scatter, 
All  my  pretty  houses  scatter. 

See  yon  splendid  pageant  forming, 
To  the  gates  the  draw-bridge  storming. 
Yonder  come  in  kingly  passion 
Lords  and  knights  in  war-like  fashion. 
See  the  black-browed  monarch  going, 
Drums  a-rolling,  trumpets  blowing, 
Clash  of  sword  and  armour's  rattle 
He  so  full  of  rage  and  battle 
For  a  mad-cap  princess  hiding 
In  some  secret  nook  deriding 
All  his  wild  and  fierce  pursuing, 
All  his  dark  and  despot  wooing. 

But  they  must  not  in  their  passion, 
Break  my  song  in  such  a  fashion, 
[98] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  HOUSE  OF  CARDS   (Continued) 
Make  no  discord  in  my  singing, 
That  dream  song  that  goes  a-ringing 
Through  the  chambers  of  my  houses, 
See  the  clash  of  war  arouses, 
He  the  greatest  king  who,  reigning, 
Rules  in  this  dear  land  of  feigning, 
King  of  hearts,  he  leads  his  lady 
Down  the  pleasant  rue  path  shady, 
Down  to  greet  the  dark-browed  lover, 
Help  his  mad-cap  queen  discover. 
And  I  hear  from  roof  to  rafter 
Naught  but  song  and  fairy  laughter. 

Till  the  chatter,  chatter,  chatter, 
Comes  of  things  that  do  not  matter ; 
Much  ado  of  wining,  dining, 
Dismal  voices  whining,  pining. 
Restless  feet  that  pitter,  patter, 
All  my  pleasant  castles  scatter, 
All  my  happy  houses  scatter. 


[99] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE    PALACE    GATE 

HALT,  who  goes  there?"  "  'Tis  for  the  new-born 
king, 
In  long  processions  see  what  gifts  we  bring. 
Here  cometh  Care  with  sheaf  of  troubled  years, 
And  here  is  Grief  with  dish  of  women's  tears. 
Frail  Glory,  too,  holds  out  her  heavy  crown, 
And  Joy  comes  pale  with  merry  eyes  cast  down, 
Sweet  Love  drags  slow  by  passion's  eager  feet 
To  make  alarm  into  a  swift  retreat, 
Here  Marriage  leads  the  law-selected  wife, 
And  yonder  Death  with  the  assassin's  knife." 

And  as  they  stood  before  the  palace  gate, 
Now  all  disturbed  to  wonder  and  to  wait. 
A  little  ghost  from  out  the  palace  ran 
And  through  the  crowd  to  force  his  way  began, 
Their  mourning  garments  beat  about  his  face. 
He  thrust  black  Care  and  Glory  from  their  place, 
Love  took  one  hand,  the  other  held  by  Joy, 
Who  ran  to  safety  with  the  pretty  boy. 
[100] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


THE  PALACE  GATE   {Continued) 

Then  soon  from  far  came  laughter  strangely  sweet 

And  on  the  floor  of  Heaven  running  feet. 

The  soldier  closed  the  clanging  palace  gate 
Upon  the  crowd  who  murmured  still  to  wait. 
"Take  back  your  gifts,  you  may  not  pass,"  he  said. 
"Hear  the  bell  toll— the  little  king  is  dead." 


[101] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


AN    OLD    PROVERB 
'It  will   be  all   the  same   in   a  thousand  years,' 

AND  in  a  thousand  years 
It  will  be  all  the  same, 
Whether  or  no 
Women's  tears  flow, 
Or  battles  take  us 
To  save  or  to  break  us, 
Or  man  against  man 
Advance  but  a  span ; 
Hideous  in  anger, 
Tame  in  death's  languor, 
Shouting  and  crying, 
Sobbing  and  dying, 
On  the  red  fields  of  war; 
Calling  on  those  afar, 
Mother  and  child  and  wife 
There  in  the  midst  of  strife. 

God,  the  earth  shakes  with  it! 
Down  in  the  hellish  pit, 
[102] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


AN  OLD  PROVERB   {Continued) 

Where  the  red  river  ran, 
Hatred  of  man  to  man; 
Maddened  they  rush  to  kill, 
That  but  their  single  will; 
Strangle  or  bayonet  him! 
Trample  him  life  and  limb 
Into  the  awful  mire ; 
Break  him  with  knife  or  fire! 
So  that  we  know  he  lie 
Dead  to  the  smiling  sky. 

And  in  a  thousand  years 
It  will  be  all  the  same. 
Which  of  us  was  to  blame? 
What  will  it  matter  then? 
Over  the  sleeping  men 
Grass  will  so  softly  grow 
No  one  would  ever  know 
Of  the  dark  crimson  stain, 
Of  all  the  hate  and  pain 
That  once  had  fearful  birth 
In  the  black  secret  earth. 


Ah!  in  a  thousand  years 
Time  will  forget  our  tears. 


[103] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


AN  OLD  PROVERB   {Continued) 

Babes  in  their  golden  hour 
Seeking  some  hidden  flower 
Will,  in  those  years  afar, 
Play  on  the  fields  of  war ; 
And  as  they  laughing  roam 
Mothers  will  call  them  home ; 
Laden  with  fruit  and  flower 
Run  they  at  twilight  hour. 
Cattle  will,  lowing,  stray, 
Little  lambs  frisk  and  play, 
Birds  nest  in  hedge  and  tree 
All  in  Time's  victory. 

Dark  o'  night,  dawn  o'  day, 
Dark  o'  night,  dawn  o'  day. 
Thus  in  a  thousand  years 
Time  will  forget  our  tears, 
And  the  lost  fields  of  war. 
In  the  good  years  afar 
When  the  lads  silent  lie, 
When  women's  tears  are  dry. 
All  the  wives  comforted, 
All  the  maid's  grief  is  shed, 
Crying  babes  safe  and  still 
[104] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


AN  OLD  PROVERB   {Continued) 

Sleeping  in  vale  and  hill, 
Sobbing  of  men  is  mute, 
And  scream  of  dying  brute, 
On  the  red  fields  of  war, 
In  those  good  years  afar. 
Only  the  waving  grass, 
Where  the  shy  children  pass 
Seeking  the  hidden  flower, 
Glad  in  their  golden  hour, 
And  as  they  laughing  roam 
Mothers  will  call  them  home, 
Laden  with  fruit  or  flower 
Run  they  at  twilight  hour. 

Over  the  meadow  grass 
Slow  the  moon's  shadows  pass. 
Only  the  chirp  of  bird 
From  the  deep  hedge  is  heard. 
This  in  a  thousand  years 
Payment  of  blood  and  tears, 
Horrors  we  dare  not  name, 
It  will  be  all  the  same. 
What  is  the  value  then 
To  all  those  sleeping  men? 


[105] 


THE  SAD  YEARS 


AN  OLD  PROVERB   {Continued) 
It  will  be  all  the  same, 
Passion  and  grief  and  blame. 
This  in  the  years  to  be, 
My  God,  the  tragedy! 


[106] 


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